


Reality

by unusuallyeddie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's only there a little bit, Gets fluffy at the end, I wrote this when I was depersonalising highkey and was a whole mess, M/M, am I even posting this? idk, depersonalisation, tbh I'm still pretty out of it, this is short as hell my b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 14:32:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unusuallyeddie/pseuds/unusuallyeddie
Summary: Some days, Castiel wasn't sure if this was even real





	Reality

Some days, Castiel wasn’t sure if it all was real.

He had done so much irreversible damage, killed so many of his brothers and sisters, been cast from heaven, been possessed and beaten and killed and revived.

Some days he wondered if it had all just been a dream.

It was days like today where he doubted what was real. Days were the sun was bright and glaring outdoors, but no light seeped into the bunker. Days where Sam and Dean were out on hunts and he was left alone to his thoughts. Days where there was nothing to do expect to sit around and ponder one’s existence. 

Nothing felt real anymore. 

The whisper of a touch against one's skin, the subtle sound of air rushing through the ears, the blurring of vision and the helplessness of reality.

There was no way of telling if it was real, if any of this was real.

Castiel had heard tales of those who made up worlds in their heads, who made up people and conversations and situations and lives in their head.    
But he never thought he may become one of them.

He didn’t know if he was. He had no way of knowing. How was he to tell if he had made this up, or if it were happening?   
The stillness of the bunker was suddenly overwhelming, the silence deafening. But Castiel could not silence his thoughts.

_ It's not real, you're not real.  _ A nasty voice whispered in his ear.  _ Nothing is real, not anymore.  _

Perhaps the voice was right. Perhaps reality had finally become too much and he had succumbed to nothingness and falsehoods, to fake realities and insecurity.

Nothing was real. He knew it was a possibility. He knew he could have created it all in his head, include himself. Perhaps he was no angel. Perhaps the angels were no hunters. Perhaps...perhaps. 

All the perhaps. 

He came to the realization that his last thought wasn’t proper English. But what was? Why were there certain ways to speak? Humans were primitive creatures, ones with meaningless rules and incoherent laws.

The universe was incoherent, Castiel thought. The universe was merely a concept, a thought, one dreamed up by a meaningless god with too much time on their hands. They were all just a poorly thought out simulation. 

Perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps they were all just a dream, a story thought up by one’s subconscious. Or they were a reality brought to life by a paper and a pen, created by a young child who’s imagination spanned a whole life story. 

There was no way of telling if any of this was real. Castiel looked around the bunker, noting his surroundings. Was he capable of thinking up this much detail? Down to the last Greek-inscribed book? Was it really possible that this could all be a dream, or a false reality?   


Was it possible to create the Winchesters, a family, a reason to rebel and die and live again?   


Perhaps it was. Perhaps this was death. Perhaps this was Castiel’s Heaven. Perhaps this was all just a memory, a fleeting thought, a wish of solidarity. 

Life was nothing. He knew this. Life itself was merely a concept, brought in with a breath and the snap of a cruel gods fingers. They were all just a snap of a cruel gods fingers. And with the same snap, they could be taken away, fleeting as a thought and a will, leaving behind nothing but a memory and a broken heart.

That is, if he had existed at all. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps this was all just a story, something played out by a movie or a show, something he was unaware of. Perhaps he wasn’t himself. No, perhaps he lived an entirely different life, one he no longer remembered. Perhaps he was too caught in his own web of lies, too lost in his own head to determine what was reality and what was fiction.

There was the vague sound of the door opening and shutting, the yell of Castiel’s name. It went ignored as he continued to ponder, what, what was reality? What was it other than a hope, a dream, a lost prayer? What was reality other than a hopeless haze determined to confound even the strongest willed.   
Then he felt it. A hand slip into his, a gentle squeeze, He looked up to see green eyes and full lips, the silent question of  _ are you ok? _

He squeezed the hand in return.

No, perhaps this was real. Maybe this was a dream, maybe it was a nightmare.

But this?    


This love, this passion, this overwhelming feeling of home?   


This, he knew, was real.

The hand squeezed his again.

This was real.

**Author's Note:**

> Depersonalisation is a real disorder, and a scary one at that. I suffer from it, and I know I'm not alone. If you have issues with telling Reality from fiction, please seek help. I know it's terrifying, but it's a necessity.


End file.
